


Dandelions for the dead

by cameliae



Series: Roses and dandelions [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Sad Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, but lambert cracks me, no beta we die like jaskier doesn't, sorry i was writing it and people said that i should let it see the light of day so here it is, this is just geralt's pov of my other fanfic, valdo marx is still a prick, you know for most of the fic geralt thinks that jaskier is dead so angstyyy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:15:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24885181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cameliae/pseuds/cameliae
Summary: Valdo widens his eyes, then he sneers, “Oh? You don't know where he is? I was wondering in fact why aren't you with him.” Then, mischief glints in his eyes, and he emphasizes that sneer while trotting before him, “Poor Julian fell from grace without you, oh mighty Witcher. And also in a ditch. Alas, no one saved him from death this time, poor, poor Julian. Not that the Continent will miss him, that's for sure, but... oh,” he snorts, “Oh, you will. Unbelievable.”Geralt fucked up, and he knows it. He thinks he has the time to make things right. Valdo Marx says that it's too late.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Roses and dandelions [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1915450
Comments: 26
Kudos: 678





	Dandelions for the dead

**Author's Note:**

> This is Geralt's pov of my fanfiction "Says the dandelion to the roses" but you can understand this even if you haven't read it!

Geralt feels the ugly guilt and regret creeping down his spine the second he turns his back to Jaskier. He doesn't acknowledge what Jaskier is saying after that, he just hears the stumbling of his steps as the bard is running away from him – from _him_. He pursues his lips, as cold remorse is pooling in his stomach, as if he has received a painless punch that leaves an unpleasant afterglow.

Not longer after Jaskier's steps, breath and heartbeats get too far away from him, so much that he cannot hear them again, he finds himself following his trail. Of fucking course he doesn't want the idiot to fall to his death, or encounter another creature on his way, so he'll stay out of his sight, but being nonetheless ready to kill whatever tries to harm him. No matter how much he doesn't enjoy his presence at the moment – fuck, he is so angry, he doesn't want _anyone_ near him, much less someone who won't stop talking even though you beg him to shut the fuck up again and again – or what he has said – he already regrets that, he does! – the last thing he actually wants is Jaskier out of his hands _forever_.

He stops his track when he reaches the clearing where he has left Roach waiting, and he doesn't mean to do it but he can't help but eavesdrop what Jaskier is murmuring, with a bad–contained broken voice, to Roache's ear, while caressing her muzzle. “I'll miss you, good girl.” he is saying, and Geralt grits his teeth, getting even more angry – at himself, _at himself_. “Take good care of your owner, alright?” he adds, brushing his lips against Roach's fur.

Then, without turning back, Jaskier goes.

He just... goes. Without looking back. Without waiting for him.

Geralt freezes there, as if he's been slapped. He hasn't expected this. He has not expected Jaskier, of all, to just walk away, to actually follow his foolish wish of him gone. He doesn't want this, he hasn't meant for this to happen.

Approaching Roach, Geralt seems to read the judgment in her black eyes. She snorts and nudges him, bumping his shoulder as if she's saying _see, see what you've done, are you happy now?_

He's fucking not. He's not happy. But it's all his own fault that he's.

“I fucked up, hm?” he says, trying to soften his voice still thick by the anger he's feeling towards himself. “I fucked up everything. Losing Yennefer wasn't enough, I had to lash out and destroy the only fucking thing that–” he trails off, squeezing his eyes. He still has time, though. With Yennefer it's useless, it's all dead and gone, but with Jaskier... fuck, Jaskier is different. Is kind. He will appreciate his stupid excuses –  _I was angry, I lashed out. I didn't mean it, you talk too much. You were trying to minimize and I had enough of your shit. But what I said wasn't true. I don't want you out of my hands._

Jaskier will understand. He always seems to understand his unspoken words. He'll surely be sad, and a little mad, but he'll smile nonetheless, he'll make a bad joke about this and Geralt will raise his eyes to the sky, mocking a frustration he never really feels. Then, all will be good. He'll accompany him until the walls of Oxenfurt will be of sight and  _farewell, my friend, 'til next spring_ . 

Geralt sighs, and gets on Roach, her reins in hands. She neighs, probably happy that finally Geralt's taking his head out of his own arse. Then he follows Jaskier's trail, his utterly sweet cologne now rich of his pungent salty sweat – and oh he hopes it's just sweat – overwhelming his senses as he marches.

He never quite reaches him, no matter how fast he goes. Sometimes he stops in a tavern and someone begs him to get rid of a unknown monster that it's killing during the night, or he hears the strums of a lute that then discovers it's not played by his bard, or he loses track of Jaskier's scent because probably he has offered to ride with someone on a carriage, then he wastes time, and Jaskier gets farther and farther away. But Geralt knows where he is going, so it doesn't matter how much he procrastinates the meeting with Jaskier, how much time he needs to gather enough courage to look in his blue, wounded eyes, it doesn't matter that he cannot feel his scent anymore – he'll find him in the end, he'll get there.

When he hears of a bard that has gone unknowingly straight where a nest of drowners should be, Geralt sighs, because that's just what he expects of Jaskier, going straight into trouble's open arms.

Nudging Roach to go faster, Geralt suddently hears a high–pitched scream and grimaces, because that unpleasant cry it's not the typical cry of help that Jaskier always makes. It doesn't let this stop him, and when he reaches a clearing, he sees a man in bright yellow clothes with a tiny drowner upon him. The man is wimpering pathetically, but he is able to take the drowner at arm length.

It takes a moment for Geralt to cut the drowner's head with a swift gesture of his sword, then glances at the bard still on the ground, panting hard, one hand across his chest. Not that he has had any doubt, but he's definitely not Jaskier. “You're the Witcher!” the man breathes in, standing up.

“And you're...” he looks at the ugly yellow tunic made of Cidarian silk he wears, at the icy–grey eyes that are watching him knowingly, at the sneer on his face. “Valdo Marx.” Geralt says in the end. He's quite sure he's the infamous Valdo. Jaskier has always been very specific whenever he described him.

Valdo's eyes gleams, “Oh, so you know about me! How could you not, after all I'm the very best of the whole Continent. But what do you know about this, Geralt of Rivia, when you surround yourself with _mediocrity_.”

Geralt hums, approaching Roach again. He doesn't have time to waste, even though he feels anger at his words, which are clearly aimed at Jaskier.

“But wait, Geralt of Rivia! Care to escort me to the next town?”

“I don't have time for you.”

“I can pay you! Profoundly. I'm afraid that I'll encounter another unwanted creature around here.”

Geralt snorts. “Then don't stay around here. Follow the main road, don't go near the river. You'll be fine, if you shut up.” then winces. Those are the same words he has said so many times whenever he snaps at Jaskier. Fuck. If he wants to be forgiven, he needs to get better.

“Here.” he hears Valdo Marx struggling to follow behind Roach. When he turns, he sees him grabbing some coins, “I told you, I can pay you. I'm not some vagabond that can't afford anything in life.”

“I don't want your money.” he growls. This man cannot seems to stop insulting Jaskier, but in a cowardly way, not even saying his name. “Hm,” he muses, narrowing his eyes, “Did you meet Jaskier on his way to Oxenfurt?”

Valdo widens his eyes, then he sneers, “Oh? You don't know where he is? I was wondering in fact why aren't you with him.” Then, mischief glints in his eyes, and he emphasizes that sneer while trotting before him, “Poor Julian fell from grace without you, oh mighty Witcher. And also in a ditch. Alas, no one saved him from death this time, poor, poor Julian. Not that the Continent will miss him, that's for sure, but... oh,” he snorts, “Oh, _you_ will. Unbelievable.”

Geralt's slow heartbeat seems to stop, after hearing those words. He can't hear anything of what Valdo is continuing to say, while his blood is suddenly running cold in his veins.

Jaskier is... dead? He is... fallen in a ditch?

It's impossibile– isn't it? Jaskier should have been no longer than a day ahead of him. How could that happened? He's... dead.

Jaskier – bright–eyed, foolish, beautiful Jaskier – is dead and the last thing Geralt has said to him is _I want you out of my hands._

_If life could give me one blessing._

Geralt tugs Roach's reins too vehemently, and Roach, snorting annoyingly, starts to run towards the woods. He ignores that damned bard's indignant shouts behind him, nudging Roach to go faster, to get as far away as she can from that man and from his words – words that he never wants to hear ever again, words that he'll haunt him for the rest of his shitty existence. _No one saved him from death this time_. All because Geralt hasn't been with him, just because Geralt is a foolish man that has always taken for granted too many things, wallowing in a security that he'll never lose the only thing that he has tried to drive away time and time again but never permanently.

He thought he had time.

He wasted it all.

 _I'm sorry_ , he wishes to say to him, _I was angry, I lashed out. I didn't mean it, come back and talk to me now. You tried to minimize and that's okay, you can joke as much as you want. But what I said wasn't true. I don't want you out of my hands. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, don't go out of my sight ever again. Come back._

Geralt stops Roach tugging her reins after he doesn't know how far he has gone. He is still in the woods, but now the road to Oxenfurt is behind his back – he'll never put his feet in there ever again. He tumbles off Roach, feeling a cold in his chest he shouldn't be able to feel.

He just stops there, with stinging eyes but not even a tear comes out of them.

He just stays there, out of nowhere, grieving what he could have had, what could have been.

_If life could give me one blessing._

_It would be you._

Geralt doesn't sleep. He's not able to anymore, he doesn't need it and he doesn't want to close his eyes – he knows way too well what he'd see the moment he closes his eyelids. He tries to meditate, but it's so, so difficult, when his mind just keeps repeating the last words he's shouted at Jaskier, his brokenhearted face, his wounded bright eyes. So, he doesn't. He goes on by inertia.

He reaches Kaer Morhen half a month later. He still feels so cold, even though his body is not trembling. The snow has started early this year, and he wonders if Jaskier's body is still where he died, if animals ate his flesh or, if not, he's now buried under this white, freezing coat. He doesn't even know if someone has given him a proper burial, or burned his remains. He doesn't have enough strength to go and search for an eventual grave, _fuck_ he cannot even stand the thought of him under tons of soil.

He doesn't want to think about him, even though he's all he can think about.

Geralt squeezes his eyes when he brings Roach inside Kaer Morhen's stable. He stays there for long moments, aware that Vesemir is watching him from one of the windows. Eskel and Lambert will surely see that something is wrong the moment their eyes will fall upon him – and what can he do, what can he say? He's tired, so tired. He's scared to rest, he can't do it when he feels so full of guilt and grief he might throw up.

“Hey, pretty boy.” Lambert is already here, Eskel is seated at his side at the table of the common room. Vesemir is nowhere in sight, for now.

Geralt ignores them – for now, please. For now, let them leave him alone. He can't stand the noises that aren't the strumming of Jaskier's lute or his voice or his stumbling steps anymore. His throat is tight, as he run in his room without giving them not even a glance. He closes his eyes as he lets the his swords slide on the ground, immediately joined by his armor. He doesn't take a bath it's been months, and still he doesn't want to have one – he does not care about the dirt on him, the smell under his armpits or the stains of some creature's blood in his oily hair.

He doesn't have his bard ready to wash away the grime, so what's the point.

He is seated on his bed, looking into the nothingness surrounding him, when Eskel opens the door with a slightly creek, almost tiptoeing until he sits next to him. Lambert doesn't join them, but Geralt knows he is there too, watching them in the doorway. “Another Child Surprise?” Eskel says, with a tip of amuseness in his voice, to break the silence.

Geralt doesn't answers. He hasn't talked in months, he probably doesn't know how to do it anymore.

“Your bard, perhaps?” snorts Lambert, “Something of his doing? Or maybe not, you usually complain when he brings troubles upon you.”

“He's dead.”

It's the first time he says it out loud. He has the sensation that now his mouth is filled of ashes. Lambert shuts up, and Eskel starts fidgeting – they know, fuck, they know what this means. They'd know for more than twenty years, no matter how much he complained, what _the bard_ means– meant– still mean for him.

“How?” asks Eskel, and oh how he hates the kindness in his voice now. He does not deserve it, he does not deserve any kindness because it's all his fault. He should be blamed, not pitied.

“I yelled at him. He... ran away from me. And fell in a ditch. Dead.”

Eskel has not the time to pat him on one shoulder as he always does, that Lambert clicks his tongue against his teeth and says: “Well, isn't it better like this? Wasn't what you always wanted?”

Geralt jumps at those words, staring at Lambert, incredulous, “What?” he growls.

“You always complained and complained and... did I already say that you complained? About that poor fella that didn't want to leave you alone as you so much desired. I guess this was the only way to get him off your way, or else sooner or later he would have appeared again on your Path, been yelled at or not. So, happy now?”

“I–” his nostrils flare, the anger clouds his mind and guilt swallows him whole, “never wanted this.” he says, through gritted teeth.

“Oh? You know, pretty boy, didn't seem like it with the way you talked about him.”

“Lambert,” Eskel chastises him with a long–knowing look, “that's uncalled f–”

“I shut up now, don't worry. But I still think that it's better like this: if you, Geralt, weren't able to appreciate someone's presence beside you before, you don't get to wear that fucking grieving face now.”

With that, he storms off.

And he's right, of course he's right, Geralt is aware of that. He deserves every full of vitriol sentence Lambert has thrown at him, because he is right. He hasn't appreciated what he had, and it slipped through his loose fingers – and it's been all his doing. There's no one to give the blame, now, but him.

Next days pass in a blur, and he still cannot sleep. When he destroys a whole room during training because he's too nervous and tired and _angry_ , Vesemir just knocks him out, because that seems the only way for him to gain a few hours of rest.

He does rest. He doesn't dream of anything. He probably is too drained to do even that.

But when he wakes, he finds himself in an meadow in nowhere, surrounded by yellow and white wildflowers and sunbathed grass. He feels fine, rested. His strained limbs are no more strained, the unknown ache in his chest seems to have disappeared.

He frowns, looking around. He doesn't know this place, he doesn't remember to ever be here. For half a second, he thinks that he's still asleep, and he is indeed just dreaming, but when warm arms embrace him from behind, he thinks _this is not a dream. It cannot be a dream. Would be too cruel._

Jaskier is as lively as he wanted to remember, his high cheeks are reddening from the sun and his windswept hair fall into his eyes. He is smiling and his scent is of wildflowers and chamomile and sunbathed meadows. Geralt breathes in so he won't ever forget.

“I thought you died.”

Jaskier leans with his chin on his shoulder, and tilts his head a bit. “Oh, Geralt,” he says, sounding amused and, oh, his voice is like a balm for his wounds, “Of course I died. This is just a dream, what were you thinking?”

Then he wakes. He does not forget his scent.

And like this, every night he dreams of him. Every time he closes his eyes, Jaskier is still there in that meadow, waiting for him. _This is fine_ , he thinks, _they're not nightmares. In my dreams, Jaskier never heard my foolish words, never died, never suffered. In my dream, I don't even have to beg for forgiveness, the dragon hunt never happened. His fall never happened. All is how it should have been._

Sometimes, though, the dreams become strange. Jaskier doesn't talk, doesn't smile. Doesn't look at him. As if he knows what he's done. Sometimes the meadow becomes a windswept cliff, the sun disappears behind thick, black clouds, the sky turns red.

Nothing happens, but Jaskier's arms never embrace him in those dreams.

When the spring is coming, the nightmares Geralt has been waiting comes. He sees Jaskier fall off the cliff, again and again and again. Geralt is never there, even though _he is_. He can just watch as he falls to his death – and his scent dissolves, Geralt cannot remember it anymore by the time he wakes.

The moment the last snowflake melts under the sun, he is the first one to leave Kaer Morhen. He doesn't bid farewell to Vesemir, nor Lamber or Eskel. He just tugs Roach's reins and goes – to Cintra.

If he has to keep living, he now has to do things right.

Pity that Jaskier cannot be finally proud of him.

He stays under the Cintran dungeons for days, probably. Time is an ephemeral thing, expecially when there's no way to see the raise and fall of the sun. Inside his cell, Geralt doesn't sleep anymore – he meditates, mostly. He needs to be on guard, because he knows that Nilfgaard is coming.

He won't let his Child die. No one will die because he hasn't been there to save them.

But when he gets out of there, it's too _fucking_ late. Cintra has fallen, and his Child is nowhere – lost, dead, captured, who knows.

He's failed again.

His injuries are deep, severe, but he's sure he'll survive. Of fucking course he'll survive. Death doesn't fall upon him, it would be too graceful – but still, he can't die, not before he finds his Child Surprise, whatever she may be, dead or not, broken or not.

The cart under him is moving in an oscillatory motion, he lulls him into an irrequieted sleep. He has visions, mostly of his mother, of himself as a child. Geralt screams at the red–haired woman, because it's her fault, it's all her fault if he's so wrong, if he's half a monster, if he can't ever be _fine_.

Visenna stares at him dead in the eye, most of the time she doesn't respond at his cry of anger. Softly, the edges of her face shift, become more pronunced. Her eyes twist to a much more loved color, a blue so bright, so carefree, so peculiar. Geralt opens his eyes, and Jaskier's face is hovering above him, his hands are around his face, his fingers are buried in his hair and scratch his nape. He's not smiling, nor laughing as he always does in his dreams – but his eyes are kind, and a bit sad.

Maybe he is dead. Maybe this time, Death is been gracious after all.

“I thought you died.”

Jaskier just blinks, “Rest now.” he says, and Geralt breathes in, and his scent is wildflowers and sunbathed meadow and chamomile, “When you'll wake, all will be fine, Geralt.”

When he wakes, he finds Cirilla into the woods and she hugs him. All is fine.

Geralt digs the tip of the knife inside the fur of the rabbit he's found. Blood slides down his wrists but he doesn't care, and neither does Ciri. Her eyes are attentive and careful, she's watching his every movement – she wants to learn, she's said that he ate a rat not too long ago and she still feels its hair on her tongue. Yennefer is seated in front of them, just the fire in the middle of the clearing divides them – she's cold and weak, and she's watching the fire as if it has all the answers she's searching.

“But isn't it faster if you just scratch away the fur?” Ciri asks, leaning onto his arm to have a better view of his work.

“You have to peel off the skin, not just the fur.”

“Oh.” she murmurs. Her face wrinkles lightly at the sight of all the blood, but she nods nonetheless. “I understand. Let me try next time.”

“Hm.” _We'll see,_ he wants to really tell her, but this thing with her is still so new, and he's afraid to say the wrong word, to discourage her, to let her hate him. She is all he has now.

“You are awfully quiet.” Yennefer says, suddenly.

“I'm always quiet.”

Yennefer scoffs, “More than the usual, I mean.”

Ciri looks between the both of them, her eyebrows furrowed down in contemplation. She probably knows already that there is still some awkwardness between Yennefer and him, she is too clever and quick–minded to have not noticed. Not that they've talked about anything – he doesn't want to, he's still not ready to face reality again. He's still losing himself in his delusions that somewhere, in a far away meadow, Jaskier is waiting for him – that he didn't die alone, and Geralt never said those foolish words up that mountain a year ago. _A year ago. Time passes, cruelly. A year ago I was yelling at him. A year ago I eavesdropped his last words murmured like a secret to Roach._

_Take good care of your owner._

_And you?_ he would like to ask him, if only he was here. _Who took care of you?_

Yennefer clicks her tongue against her palate, “Then _it's_ awfully quiet. Better? Listen, Geralt, it's still a long way to Kaer Morhen. I still cannot use my magic, and life is already enough shitty without you brooding in a corner. We should talk.”

“I don't want to talk.”

 _You_ , Jaskier's voice haunts him, as always, _you should have taken care of me._

“If you don't want to talk, I'll do that for you too.” Yennefer says, almost hissing through her teeth, “We should do something about your foolish wish, Geralt. We can't stay like this. You know that we probably have to find another Djinn? Do you want to repeat the experience? There's someone missing, in that case.”

“Yennefer.” it's his time to hiss, glaring at her through the golden flames.

“Djinn?” Ciri asks, with a tiny voice.

Geralt lowers his eyes and tries to softens his stare. He much prefers to end the conversation with Yennefer now and pass the next hours telling Ciri whatever she desires to hear, answering her questions, satisfing her curiosity.

But Yennefer seems to not be on the same opinion, “You really should take your head out of your arse, Geralt.” she stops and clears her throat, glancing doubtfully at Ciri – probably thinking that she should be more careful with her language, “Do you have this darkened face just because of the bard? Gods, are you in love with him? Why are you still–”

“I said,” the forgotten dead rabbit falls on the ground as he gets up, his nerves tense, his head pounding. Yennefer shuts up, blinking at him from the log she is still seated on. “I said that I don't want to talk.”

“Geralt, we need to. At least do it for Jask–”

“Not now.” he growls one last time, before he turns his back on them and storms off the clearing, hiding himself into the woods around them.

He doesn't go too far, of course. Nilfgaard is searching for them, and for everyone that may know of their whereabouts, so with Yennefer too strained to even light a torch and Cirilla still too defenseless, he cannot leave them alone. And he won't. He just needs... some time.

He won't make the same mistakes again, he won't lash out, he won't push his own frustration and grief into Yennefer. She knows nothing, probably. She's never cared before about Jaskier, and she probably still doesn't care – and of course she wouldn't have known about his death, Jaskier is not something that would catch her eyes – if he's not with Geralt.

It's just Geralt, really, that he's still not ready to talk about him, to tell someone of his death a second time and getting blamed on – not that it's not what he deserves, on the contrary. But he can't bear it anymore.

So he just falls beside Roach, leaning on her. He touches her muzzle as she neighs and snorts softly, content from the attention she's getting.

At last, he closes his eyes and meditates, falling in his delusions that aren't enough as his dreams.

_I thought you died._

_I did. Sad, I know, I wanted so much to hear your apologies._

It's been hard, and difficult. The snow reaches their calves at this point, but it doesn't let them slow down – and finally, after the longest weeks of Geralt's life, they arrive at Kaer Morhen. The white coat of snow already covers the roofs of the keep, and makes Ciri panting as she tries to cross the frozen paths to its entrance.

Yennefer has her eyes slitted in a glare that it's all hers, while she too takes unbalanced steps through the ice. They still haven't talked much, if not for something Ciri–related, and it's better like this; Geralt has the clue that however their conversations turn around, they'd still end up arguing in a futile way – and inevitably, putting Jaskier in the middle, and no, no, he still doesn't want to talk with her about him, about the dragon hunt, about his stupid _wishes._

It's Lambert who greets them at the entrance. He raises an eyebrow when his eyes fall on Yennefer and Ciri, but he doesn't say anything – they probably all have heard about Nilfgaard searching for him and for Cirilla, so it should not have been hard doing two plus two. But when Lambert finally looks at him, he smiles, almost sneering he dares to say, and chuckles as if he's heard the best joke ever.

Geralt is tired, so he doesn't pay him any attention – he's not in the right mood to hear about his shitty remarks, they have had a long way and Cirilla is almost sleeping on her feet, so he just nudges her to go forward, Yennefer in tow, until they reach an empty room.

“You'll stay with her?” he asks Yennefer.

She raises an elegant eyebrow, “What, you don't trust your own family?”

“I just think that she needs not to be alone. I think you would be better in this than I'll ever be.” he says, tucking the thick furred cover around an already sleeping Ciri.

When he stands, he finds Yennefer staring at him intensely, a peculiar glint in her purple eyes that Geralt can't quite grasp. “You know what _I_ think, Geralt? I think you should consider yourself a better man, because you are. Even with all the...” she looks at him up and down, “Flaws.”

“Believe me, there is nothing good in me.”

If only he's been good even _once_ in his life, he would not have killed Renfri. Jaskier would have been with him and he would not have died. He would have saved him.

Yennefer just throws her eyes to the sky, in an exasperated way. The, she shoos him with a careless gesture of her hand.

Geralt doesn't know what to do now. He runs across the corridors of the keep until he reaches the common room, where he just sits in a bench with his hands on his face and elbows on his knees. He has resposabilities, now. Resposabilities that he never wanted, but now they're all he has, because the second his eyes have fallen upon the scared little brave woman that is Cirilla, he feels as if his life is returning into him. He has a purpose that he doesn't want to fail, now. He's failed for so much time, and he regrets all his mistakes – but now he cannot find the regret to have requested the Law of Surprise anymore.

“I won't talk, but let the Gods strike me if I lose the face he'll make!”

“Shut up, you idiot.”

Geralt looks between his fingers and sees Eskel and Lambert approaching him, and he groans silently. He knows that they probably have questions about Yennefer and Cirilla, but Gods, he's so _tired._

 _All will be fine, Geralt_.

If only.

With a deep breath, he watches as Lambert, still with that unnerving smile, sits on the table. Eskel, on other hand, just puts himself next to him, patting his shoulder. “Quite the beautiful sorceress you found for yourself, Geralt.”

Lambert snorts.

Eskel chuckles instead, not even waiting for him to respond, “Did she talk to you already about your bard? He said that they met some time ago, and got drunk together. But, oh, by the awfully confused stare you're giving me I guess she didn't say anything?”

Geralt blinks, “What.”

“I met your bardling half a month ago, rescued him from a bruxa. He was searching for you, blabbed about his useless journey throughout the Continent, and begged me to tell you to never believe Valdo Marx's words ever again. And that he is now waiting for you in Oxenfurt. Don't worry, I accompanied him myself there, it was on my way here after all.”

Geralt blinks again, looking at Eskel straight in the eyes, “Wait, what?”

“Oh, Gods.” Lambert's snorts again.

“Geralt, Jaskier is fine. He never died.” Eskel says, slowly, as if he's talking to a wounded animal, “Believe me, he's very much alive. He was searching for you, he even met Lambert and called him a prick – I don't think he likes you, Lambert, really – so I promised him that I would tell you he's safe and sound there in Oxenfurt. And I did. So, Geralt,” he pats him again, this time on both his shoulders, “stop being dead inside.”

Geralt stares at the gentle look in Eskel's eyes, then he glances at Lambert, but the prick is just trying to get the dirt off from under his nails. “Wait, what–”

“Geralt, I know it's hard to believe. It's been a year, after all, not a few days. But Jaskier is alive, I promise you, he is.”

He squeezes his eyes, then stands up. “I have to go.” he just says, and his head spins, his mind blank, his limbs heavy. He's still tired, but he won't wait even a second more – he has to see with his own eyes, now. No one will fuck with him ever again, he won't believe anything that isn't right in front of his very eyes ever again. “I have to go.” he repeats.

Jaskier is alive. It can be, right? He's not dreaming this time. There is no meadow, his scent isn't overwhelming his senses, so this is _not_ a dream. Lambert may lie to him, but not Eskel, never Eskel – so he must be, yes? He's alive in Oxenfurt. As he should have always been.

 _All will be fine, Geralt_.

 _Yes,_ he'd like to say to him now, _when I'll see you again._

“This is the most stupid thing you'll ever do, of course right after yelling at the only person _alive_ that seems to appreciate you. But I'm not here to stop you, so go on, Geralt. Go to Oxenfurt under the snowstorm that will come in any moments now.” Lambert raises his hands to the sky, shaking his head, deeply concerned about Geralt's state of mind.

Geralt ignores him, running again through the keep. He even ignores Vesemir, that apparently has heard everything in his usual severe silence, and goes to Yennefer.

He knows she's drained, he knows that her magic is unstable after the Battle of Sodden, but _please_ , he can't wait. He has to see him, he has to be sure, he has to touch him and kiss him and bring him there in Kaer Morhen so he'll never be out of his sight ever again. If Geralt never takes his eyes off him, things like that won't happen again.

“I have to go.” he says again, this time to Yennefer, that is just looking out the window in Cirilla's room. “But I need your help.”

“Of course.”

“You have to portal me to Oxenfurt.”

She blinks dramatically, “My magic is drained, Geralt.”

“I know, and I'm sorry, but,” and fuck, he knows he's being selfish, and careless. He doesn't care, he's sorry but he _doesn't care._ “I thought Jaskier was dead. He's not. I have to make sure. And bring him here. _Please_.”

“You... what?”

“It's a long story.” he shakes his head. He doesn't want to think about his death again, “Will you help me?”

“Well, your behaviour makes a lot more sense, now. But still, _Gods_ , Geralt, you fucking fool, it's been _weeks_ that I'm trying to talk to you to get your head out of your arse because I had quite the conversation with your bard, and– and– fuck, nevermind.” she wiggles her fingers, and little sparks grow from the tips, “Gods, men are all so stupid.”

She opens a portal after ten minutes, and there's sweat on her forehead.

“Thanks, Yenn.”

“You owe me. And your bard too.”

When he sees Valdo Marx, his first instinct is to kill him. To bury his sword – no, _both_ his swords into him and making him to shreds, because Geralt can't still believe it that he _dared_ to say that _Jaskier fucking died_. His fingers twitch, but he does not make any gesture towards his swords. Even though, the fool should see something on his face – anger, rage, a murderous stare – or probably he's just finally realizing that he fucked up and he's going to die for just a petty rivalry, because as soon as his eyes fall upon him, he shrieks and almost collapses.

“Geralt. Hello there.”

Then, he sees him. He stumbles into the room, and the sight is so dear to him, is so familiar as if nothing happened or changed, that his chest aches again. No matter that Jaskier's in front of him, colorful as always, eyes bright as always, breathing and twitching and fidgeting as always; is heart aches – because, Gods, he's _missed_ him so much.

All he feels are his hands in his, and his soothing voice says something he can't quite grasp, too busy seeing his face so close, his callouses fingers brushing against his imperfect palms, how his longer than he remembers hair falls into his eyes – eyes that were so sad, and broken, and wounded back on that hateful mountain because of him, but now are guarded, and he _deserves_ it.

Jaskier brings him into what should be his room. It smells like him and it's overwhelming, he's missed his scent so much. His dreams and delusions and memories don't do him justice.

“Well,” Jaskier says, with a slightly insecurity that Geralt never heard in his voice before.

Geralt closes his eyes and leans on him until his head bumps on his shoulder. “I thought you died.”

_Oh, Geralt. Of course I died. This is just a dream, what were you thinking?_

_I did. Sad, I know, I wanted so much to hear your apologies._

_Rest now. When you'll wake, all will be fine, Geralt._

“I didn't.” Jaskier says, in his real voice and not just in his head. He chuckles, and Geralt squeezes his eyes because they sting, and burn, and Geralt knows that he won't cry because he's unable to, but oh he feels so much like he'll burst out crying any moment now. “You have to stop ignoring my blabbing, Geralt, or else you'd have known not to trust Valdo's words.”

He's right, of course he's right. He's always heard Jaskier, always, but he's never taken seriously his chattering, he's just considered them useless words. He knows better now.

He'll never ignore Jaskier again.

“Uhm, how did you get here? It's a long way under the snow from Kaer Morhen...”

“Yennefer portalled me here as soon as I talked to Eskel.”

Jaskier turns around and, grundgingly, he has to stop leaning on him – even though it's the only thing he wants to do now. “Is she fine? I heard about Sodden.”

“She is. She's just drained, but fine. Cirilla's too. She is at Kaer Morhen.”

“Nilfgaard is searching for you both. But then again, if I didn't find you anywhere, they hardly have more chances than me.” he smiles, tentatively.

And here is the problem. He hasn't known before, of course, but know Geralt is sure that Nilfgaard is searching for Jaskier too – he's become too famous as the Witcher's bard, so he is the first one they probably would go and search. Now that he knows that Jaskier is well and alive, he won't leave him here at the mercy of anyone. As he's already promised himself, he won't get his eyes off him ever again. “Nilfgaard is searching for you too, Jaskier. They might use you to get to me and–” he huffs, and grits his teeth in anger, “Come with me to Kaer Morhen, Yennefer is waiting for us just out of Oxenfurt.”

Jaskier's eyes are blue, and so, so clear. But they're dimmed – he's never, never been so insecure with him before. Jaskier's eyes are the same as they were after the dragon hunt, they're wounded and afraid, even if he doesn't smell like it.

And Geralt realizes that he's doing it all wrong.

 _I wanted so much to hear your apologies_.

“Here I'm safe, Geralt.” he murmurs, with the light from the fireplace warming half his face, “I'm professor Julian here, not Jaskier the bard.”

Oh, he's doing it so, so wrong.

Geralt is aware that he doesn't deserve his forgiveness, not after what he's said, not after what he's done for the past twenty years. Probably, one day he'll make things right, and he will be worthy of his love again – and if not his love, at least his friendship. At least something.

So, he kneels in front of him, palms on his thighs. “I'm doing what I was supposed to do the second I yelled at you up that mountain, Jaskier. I can't really blame you if you are so reluctant to follow me now, after the things I said.” He looks at him as he's gaping, but he doesn't let him talk this time. It's his turn. Jaskier deserve at least this. “Let me talk, Jaskier. I don't deserve your forgiveness, I'm not asking you to give me that. I just want you to know that I regret every single word I said, and I didn't mean any of it. I don't blame you for the things happened to me, and the last thing I want is... is to have you away from me. It was even worse when I actually didn't saw you waiting for me where we left Roach, because you... you were really gone, and I _really_ fucked up everything, whatever we... were, or could have been. I tried to find you again, but then...” he stops and inhales a trembling breath, squeezing his eyes. “I don't want you to forgive me, Jaskier. But I don't want to feel that _terror_ and _pain_ ever again, so all I ask of you is to come with me to Kaer Morhen, and be safe right before my eyes. _Please_.”

And then, the Jaskier he knows comes back. He starts to jump around, shouting at him that he should get up and if he wants to forgive him he'll do it, he won't do what Geralt says. But he accepts to come home with him, so it's enough. “First of all,” he's saying , waiving a finger at him, “get up and sit on a fucking chair, godsdamnit, Geralt. Second, you can't tell me what to do, so if I want to forgive you, I will you ungrateful bastard. And third, yeah, okay, _fine_ , I'll come with you. Happy now?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Very well. Shall we go? Can't let Yennefer wait too much under the snow. Oh, wait, I _can_. I need to gather my things first and say goodbye to all my friends and of course I didn't forget about killing Valdo, so oh Gods it'll take so much time to hide his displeasing body, I hope she won't freeze to death in the meantime, that would be a shame.”

And Geralt is so overwhelmed with his chatting, that he feels his throat closing in a gap, and he almost cannot breath again. “I missed you.”

Jaskier trips as he walks to reach his bed, “W–W–What? Gods, Geralt, _get up_ from the floor I said!”

“It was easier to complain about your whining and chattering when I knew for certain that there will be a next time. The silence was unbearable when I knew you would never break it again.”

Geralt still thinks that he's not worth of his forgiveness, but Jaskier is like this. He's known from the start that at his apologies, he'd just smile, and joke, and turn back to normal. Jaskier is kind, and he gets revenge but just against Valdo Marx, and still – and still kisses him when Geralt gathers enough courage to take his face in his hands to impress his scent in his mind forever. It's still chamomile, sunbathed meadow and wildflowers. It's more intoxicating than he remembers, than he's dreamt of, and that's okay because it's so real, now.

“Uh, Geralt, you know that...” 

“Hm?”

Geralt sees him as he starts to fidget a hem of his doublet, “I don't want you to regret bringing me to Kaer Morhen, so I want to make it clear that I feel... deeply for you. I mean, you probably already know that I _kinda_ , uh, am in love with you. In spite of everything, I still do. So, I don't want to be a problem for you and Yennefer, that's it.”

He wants to punch himself, because of course it's his fault if Jaskier feels like this. “You won't be a problem.”

“But, Geralt–”

“I said that you _definitely_ won't be a problem. Try to understand.”

It will take time before Jaskier believes him again. Even after kissing him, after telling him that he won't be a problem between him and Yennefer, the doubt still clouds his eyes.

It will take time before Jaskier believes him when he'll say that he loves him.

He catches his hands and he never lets go.

_All will be fine, Geralt._

**Author's Note:**

> I still don't know why I posted this. But I felt the urge to write Geralt's pov, and I talked about this urge on tumblr, and tumblr said that I should definitely let this fic see the light of the day. So, here it is!


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